


Armed and Armoured

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Long centuries ago, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Other-King of the West, offered a great reward to anyone who could rid his land of a monstrous dragon.Time passed. Many heroes tried and failed.One day the dragon simply – flew away.**On Brienne Tarth's first day in the King's Landing PD, an emergency call came in from Lannisport, claiming that the city was being attacked - by a dragon.[Now complete, with a bonus drabble at chapter 3]
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 124
Kudos: 350





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has gone through many incarnations. It was supposed to be a little paranormal/urban fantasy one-shot, but the backstory grew on me - and besides, who doesn't love Brienne fighting dragons? 
> 
> The second part should be up soon. 
> 
> The bit about symbols having power comes from Kate Griffin's Matthew Swift novels, which contain fascinating and amazingly descriptive ideas of urban sorcery.

Long centuries ago, Lord Tywin Lannister, the Other-King of the West, had offered half the gold in Casterly Rock and his daughter’s hand in marriage to anyone who could rid the land of a monstrous dragon. 

Many heroes tried and failed.

Long years passed. 

One day the dragon simply – flew away. 

As long decades and centuries passed, the seasons turned and the world changed, knights and armour giving way to guns and Kevlar, Faerie fading into the hidden nooks and crannies of the world. The dragon and the Other-King’s oath were long-forgotten, and besides, Princess Cersei had long since married Robert Baratheon. 

And then one day, just as mysteriously as it had flown away, the dragon came back.

**

The north was a harsh land, and northern magic was harsher still. In her five years in the elite paranormal squad of the Wintertown PD, Brienne had faced skin-changers and ice-spiders and shambling wights, snow-wizards and giants and even the terrifying white walkers. 

When she’d requested a transfer to King’s Landing, she’d never thought to find herself on an emergency flight to Lannisport on her very first day, after a panicked call for reinforcements had come in, citing that the city had been attacked by a _dragon_.

Ducking behind an ancient stone building, firing bullets coated with a thin layer of dragon-glass, she cursed whoever told her that the South was far more civilized than the North, the magic less primitive. 

“No one ever said anything about bloody dragons!” she shouted at her brand new partner, Bronn Blackwater, who had been smirking and cynical – until he actually came face to face with the dragon. 

The dragon speared through the blue sky, moving with unbelievable speed, and opened its great maw. She felt the incredible heat of the flame as it barreled down to the ground, scorching the air and cracking the ancient brick. All around her people screamed and fled panicked in all directions, some of them still holding their phones up and recording – 

“Who the fuck knew there would be a dragon?” Bronn shot back, grinning wildly, his teeth very white in his smoke-blackened face. 

She darted out from cover and snatched up a bent, scorched street sign that had fallen from its post – an unmistakable red octagon – and hefted it, considering. 

Symbols had power. Perhaps a literal stop sign –

“What are you – oh, you’re not bloody serious!” Bronn shouted. “That’s not going to work against dragonfire!” 

In the distance, the dragon banked and turned, the sound of its wings ripping the air like tearing fabric. It was heading back towards the defenders. 

She stepped out into the open, gripped her gun and her makeshift shield, and squared her shoulders. 

“Allow me,” a voice said. She turned to see an Other-lord in a scorched Lannister crimson tunic standing beside her, wearing a sheathed sword, of all things. He held out his left hand, nicked and bleeding, a black hunter’s mark stark on his palm. “Show me your shield, woman,” he said, gesturing impatiently. “Quickly! The beast is coming back.” 

She frowned at him, but held the stop sign out to him. He didn’t take it, but instead laid his bleeding hand on the bent and blackened metal. Brienne had only a limited sensitivity to magic, but she could feel the power he poured into the shield. As he lifted his hand away, she could see his hand-print glowing white-hot, before it faded away into nothingness. 

She stared at him. “Thank you,” she said solemnly. 

He smiled at her, a lopsided, absurdly warm smile. “Here,” he said. “You may as well take this, if you’re going to be a dragonslayer.” He drew his sword, reversed the blade so that the hilt was towards her – all gold and rubies, it was as ridiculously ornate and striking as the golden stranger himself. 

“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes running over the rippling steel of the blade, the countless folds of spell-wrought steel.

“Stop flirting and take the fucking sword!” Bronn shouted, breaking the spell. “If you haven’t noticed, it’s coming back again!” 

She looked up to see the dragon growing nearer and nearer. It opened its jaws, the glow of fire gathering at the back of its throat. 

She holstered her gun and took the sword. It felt as though it had been made for her hand. 

And then there was no time for anything else, as the fire poured out in a great cascading jet. Brienne threw herself in front of the golden stranger and raised her shield desperately against the white-hot fire. It was so hot, like ten thousand burning furnaces, and she screamed in terror and desperation as even the very breath burned in her lungs. Behind her, she felt the golden stranger’s hand on her back, felt his power pouring into her – 

Somehow, incredibly, the shield held. 

**

She was never sure, afterwards, how she fought through the fire not just once but twice, scaled a pile of rubble up to the ruined second floor of a building and then launched herself onto the dragon as it flew past, but there were several reliable eye-witness accounts and a number of shaky recordings uploaded to popular social media sites. 

The onlookers had shouted and screamed as the dragon twisted and shrieked, climbing higher and higher into the ash-stained sky as it sought to throw her off. Moments later, when it began to spiral downwards, plummeting uncontrollably towards the ground, wings flailing uselessly as Brienne stabbed the spell-wrought blade into it over and over, there had been wild cheering and exultation – 

Until the dragon’s huge body had come crashing down into a good chunk of Lannisport’s central business district. 

The image of her leaping onto the dragon's back, sword raised over her head and screaming like a banshee went viral within hours. The only mercy was that she was so smoke-blackened and scorched that she was unrecognizable. 

** 

She was summoned to Casterly Rock immediately afterwards. 

There she was brought to stand before the great throne of the Other-King of the West. The huge, echoing hall was hung with gold and crimson banners, a fitting backdrop for King Tywin Lannister.

Standing at the foot of the throne, wearing a crimson silk surcoat emblazoned with the roaring lion, a ruby-studded circlet resting on his hair, was the golden stranger. 

“Oh,” she said, again – for the second time that day. 

Prince Jaime Lannister, the lion of Casterly Rock, smiled at her. 

“Detective Brienne Tarth, of the King’s Landing Police Department,” the King intoned, drawing her attention back to the throne. “You have freed our kingdom from the scourge of the dragon.” 

He did not look at all happy about it. 

“You have our gratitude and our thanks. What would you ask of us as reward for your great heroism?” 

Brienne blinked. She’d thought this would have to do with a dragon falling on Lannisport, had expected to be reprimanded rather than rewarded. 

“Your grace,” she began, “I do not require –”

“Father,” Prince Jaime interrupted her. “I believe the ancient reward is still applicable: half the gold in Casterly Rock and your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“Your sister is already wed,” King Tywin said, frowning severely at his son. “And this – mortal – hardly expects –” 

“You swore an oath, Father,” Prince Jaime said. He held up his left hand – he was missing the other, she realized suddenly – with its black hunter’s mark. “You are the King. You cannot afford to be foresworn.”

The hunter were the enforcers of the laws of the Otherworld, accountable to nothing and no one but their own conscience. They did not lie, they did not handle money, they took no sides – and this one in particular, she remembered vaguely, had killed a King before. 

“I have no other daughters,” the King said icily. “What do you suggest? Shall I bestow Tyrion’s hand on her?” 

There were muffled titters from the assembled courtiers. She did not understand why. 

“Not Tyrion, Father,” Prince Jaime said. “Me.” 

**

And that was how, on her first day in King’s Landing, Brienne slew a dragon and won the hand of a golden prince. 

** 

[“I had to hold my father to his oath,” Prince Jaime said to her, afterwards. “But I would advise you to make a grand gesture and return the gold as my bride-price. He is more than capable of presenting you with half the gold of Casterly Rock in molten form, poured over your head.”]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens *after* the brave dragonslayer weds the golden prince?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is part 2! 
> 
> Many thanks to all who left comments and kudos on chapter 1. Every single one is very much appreciated.

Outside of Lannisport, King’s Landing had the largest population of Otherfolk in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“And most of ‘em,” Bronn had said, showing her the ropes after she’d returned from Lannisport with the golden spoils of her dragonslaying, “live in the Enclave.” 

The Enclave was a wild maze of streets and alleys in Flea Bottom: obscure shops with lead-paned windows displaying ancient books or mysterious artifacts; raucous markets where stall-holders sold fresh herbs picked by moonlight, or glamours and illusions, or the raw ingredients for spell-crafting; in the darkened alleyways, secretive figures sold curses and poisons and ill-wishes.

Magic was real and dangerous here. Most people on the streets bore protection charms against their skin; the buildings were warded by skilled and powerful wardsmiths; human visitors could often be seen wearing iron, which was inimical to the Otherfolk. 

By centuries-old accord, the ancient laws of the Otherworld held sway, enforced by hunters rather than human police. Still, Brienne and the other dedicated members of the KLPD’s so-called Spook Squad maintained a presence on the border of the Enclave and did their best to defend the people of King’s Landing from the Otherfolk – and the Otherfolk from the people of King’s Landing in turn. 

The Spook Squad’s station house was an old red-brick building on the border, the walls suffused with old magic and powerful wards. Grey-bearded, unflappable Captain Selmy presided over the eccentric, highly individualistic team, keeping order as well as he could. 

** 

Unlike the North, which celebrated the Midwinter Solstice as the Long Night, in the South, the Otherfolk celebrated Midsummer. It was no solemn ritual, either, but a wild, night-long revel that drew visitors from all over the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Quite frankly, it’s a nightmare to police,” Captain Selmy said at the beginning of the night. “Too many people, and too much magic – someone always ends up hurt. But nevertheless, we must try our best to protect the public.” 

And so the whole squad was out in force on the streets of the Enclave. 

As always, Brienne had been paired with Bronn. If she’d thought him crude, too flippant and utterly self-serving at their first meeting, he’d held his ground in Lannisport. In the four weeks since their return, she had found him a reliable partner, street-smart and cynical and brutally practical. 

On this wildest of nights, Bronn wore the standard heavy-duty police uniform, steel-capped boots and Kevlar stab vest. He wore iron on his wrists and had paid a wardsmith to sew charm- and ward-patches onto his vest. 

Brienne was dressed in Kevlar and spider-silk. The white shirt and shimmering blue jacket were woven with spells and embroidered at her wrists and collar with tiny roaring lions, each holding a tiny sapphire charm in its mouth. The powerful ward on her stab-vest – the imprint of Jaime’s palm, as always – shone faintly in the moonlight. On her wrists she wore braided leather bracelets strung with protection spells so strong they set off the magic-detectors at the station house. 

Her gun was warded as well. And just in case the wards and the charms and even bullets failed, she bore a lion-hilted dagger of finest spell-wrought steel. 

“Your golden prince isn’t very subtle, is he,” Bronn said, smirking insufferably. “Lions everywhere. Spell-wrought steel. Charms and wards blazing with his power.”

Brienne sighed. “He’s not my golden prince,” she said, for the thousandth time. “I told you, it’s not a real marriage. He had to marry me because of his father’s oath.” 

“He said the words, didn’t he?” Bronn asked. “Trust me, he wouldn’t have spoken the vows if he didn’t mean them. Not the Kingslayer.”

_Don’t call him that,_ she almost snapped, before she saw his bright, baiting grin. 

Glaring, she ignored him in favour of patrolling through the crowds. Otherfolk of all shapes and sizes spilled out into the streets, dressed in wild costumes and fantastic masks, laughing and dancing and celebrating the bright midsummer moon. Humans, too, thronged the streets for the wildest and most exciting party of the year – the risk of danger only adding to the fun. 

**

The first call-out came just before midnight. 

“There’s always blood spilt, on the Solstice,” the pathologist said, as they stood over the body. “But the revelers are always sure it’ll be someone else. Not them.” 

According to her horrified friends, the twenty-two year old woman had danced all night until her feet were torn to shreds, despite repeated attempts to stop. She had danced her way to the top of the bridge and then thrown herself off, her face transfixed with joy and horror. 

The simplest whiff of her breath was enough to reveal that she’d been drinking faerie-wine. 

_It was supposed to be a lark,_ her friends said, _just a little fling –_

“She had no protection charms,” Bronn said, not without sympathy. “No wards or defences, wasn’t even carrying iron. She had no business venturing into the Enclave completely unprotected.” 

“She should have been safe,” Brienne insisted. 

“Aye, and maybe she would have been, on any other night.” Bronn shrugged. “But not tonight.” 

** 

There were two more deaths before dawn. 

** 

She made her way home in the grey light of morning, the narrow, winding streets almost empty, now, after the wild celebrations. Birds called, and the sounds of greater King’s Landing could be heard: engines, construction, the quick rush of trains and buses – the modern, mortal world making its presence known. 

She lived with her unconventionally acquired husband in the heart of the Enclave, on the top floor of what had once been an elegant mansion. The floors were of honey-gold stone, scattered with rich jewel-coloured rugs; the original plasterwork and moulding was still mostly intact, and the walls were painted with delicate murals of birds and flowering vines. In the golden glow of candle- or lamp-light, it looked rustic and enchanting. 

In the cold light of dawn, she could see the edges of illusion and glamour and the spells that kept the stone from crumbling. 

Jaime’s wards were powerful. She felt them brush against her as she let herself in; his magic curled around her, lazy and golden, and welcomed her home. 

** 

“A wild night?” his voice asked. “Was this your first Solstice?”

She stripped off her jacket and vest and hung them on a curlicued bronze coat-rack. Jaime could not abide the touch of iron. 

“In Wintertown they celebrate the Winter Solstice,” she replied. “The Queen of Winter emerges from Winterfell on the Long Night and walks the streets of the city, frost trailing in her wake.”

Of course, things were very different in the South: the land was gentler, the magic less primitive – save for the occasional dragon – and the Otherfolk were much fairer and far more cruel. 

Prince Jaime Lannister, she thought helplessly, was the fairest creature she had ever encountered. And sometimes the most cruel.

He was lounging on their oversized couch, his feet bare. On the television, a fictional detective and her unconventional partner solved crimes while navigating their unspoken attraction. 

She sat down beside him. His arm came around her, warm and solid, and she curled into his side, breathing in his scent. He had stood with her against the dragon in Lannisport, his hand on her back the only real thing in the world as dragonfire burned all around her. 

He had stood beside her in the sept at Casterly Rock and said _I am hers, and she is mine._ He was the only person in the world she could call her own. 

“Could you have saved them?” she breathed, feeling his heart beat strong and steady. “You’re a hunter. You enforce the laws.”

He tightened his arm around her, traced his hand on her back. He was drawing wards, she realized. She could feel the warmth of them sinking into her skin. 

“There must always be blood on the Solstice,” he answered her. “In the North it is the frost. In the South, the revels. Had I intervened to save those three mortals, three others would have died.” 

“It’s not fair,” she said. 

“Fair?” She felt his huff of laughter. “Nothing in the world is fair.” 

**

They went to bed. 

Not for sex. They might be wed, but Brienne was reluctant to cross that line; she had won Jaime’s hand in marriage with what amounted to brute force, just like an iron-fisted conqueror of old. She had killed a dragon, and somehow that gave her the right to take him from his home and his people and make him her own. 

Of course, that wasn’t quite the whole picture. It denied Jaime his own agency; he was a Prince of Faerie, a power in his own right. He had chosen to hold his father to the ancient oath, and he had volunteered to be the one to marry Brienne. 

Intellectually, she knew that if Jaime had not wanted to marry her and move halfway across Westeros to King’s Landing, he would not have done so. He had teeth of his own.

But still, in the darkest hours of the night, she doubted. 

“Stop thinking,” he breathed, curling himself around her and threading his fingers through hers. His body was warm behind her, the low thrum of his magic like a comforting buzz. “We are man and wife, Brienne. From this day until the end of our days.”

“Because I killed the dragon?” she asked. 

“Because you stood against the dragon, when no one else would,” he corrected her. "Because you had no thought of glory or renown. Because you looked at me with such grave wonder in your beautiful blue eyes.” 

She turned in the circle of his arms to face him. 

“And most importantly,” he said, “because I chose it.” 

He kissed her, slow and sweet. She made a low, desperate sound and pressed close against him, holding him tightly to her, as if she could stop him from slipping away. 

“Stay,” she whispered softly, pressing her hand against his heart. “Please.”

“Go to sleep,” he said, pressing a kiss to her brow. “I’ll be here when you wake. I swear it.”

She slept.

** 

He was still beside her when she woke.


	3. (Bonus drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little world-building bonus drabble, featuring Tyrion as a night-club owner, the Hound being bad-tempered, and Jaime showing off to impress Brienne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all who read and enjoyed the main story and left comments and kudos. I was so blown away by the requests for more that I went back through my scrapped scenes and cobbled together this little world-building drabble. Please enjoy, with my compliments!

The Enclave as a rule was an orderly place. If there was trickery and deceit, it was within the bounds of the laws. If there was cruelty and heartbreak and disillusionment, it was no more than the cost of living. 

And if foolish humans ventured into the ancient streets without iron or protection charms, well – that was just stupidity. 

When Brienne was on duty and Jaime wasn’t actively engaged on a hunt, he often strolled down to the nightclub run by his scapegrace younger brother, Tyrion. 

The King of the West’s wastrel younger son, a dwarf, a drunk and a lecher, had been exiled long centuries past to the human world for unspecified crimes – or perhaps just because his father could not bear to look upon him. He’d been among the first of the Otherfolk to settle in the Enclave. He’d bought the first establishment on the high street. It had been a brothel at first, but now it was the most popular nightclub in the Enclave – even more so because it was open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Tyrion had welcomed his elder brother’s arrival in King’s Landing with a warm embrace and an offer of a job. 

“I promise I won’t try to offer you money,” he’d said solemnly. “You can work here as long as you like without remuneration.”

And so Jaime spent his days as an assistant bartender at Tyrion’s nightclub. It was less about pouring drinks than it was offering general protection to the premises: he warded the doors and the windows, made sure the patrons came to no real harm, and generally passed the time trading witticisms with his brother and the real bartender, dour Sandor Clegane. 

He refused to handle the customers’ money. 

Clegane, looming imposingly over Jaime’s shoulder, would silently point to the self-serve EFTPOS machine or the glass jar filled with coins and notes, each with a handwritten sticky note that said: PAY UP OR BE CURSED. 

Some smart-mouthed human visitors openly scoffed at the idea of a curse. But the more discerning took note of the powerful wards inscribed not just on the doors and windows but also on the bar itself. 

No one wanted to push their luck.

** 

One lazy afternoon, Brienne dropped in to see Jaime during a break in her shift. 

There were few customers at two in the afternoon, with golden sunlight streaming in through the hazy glass windows; the dance floor was empty and only a few die-hards remained huddled in the darkest corners. 

Jaime was refining the wards on the bar, clearing them away with a sweep of his hand and then dipping his finger into a glass of triple-strength vodka to trace a series of elaborate patterns. 

“Why don’t you use your palm?” Brienne asked, seating herself at the bar and watching with interest. 

“These aren’t for protection,” Jaime said. “They’re for trapping sticky fingers – they need to be more elaborate.”

“There’s no need to draw ‘em in our best vodka though,” Clegane growled. 

Jaime only grinned. “Watch this,” he said, winking at Brienne. He reached for an old-fashioned Zippo lighter with a flick lid, lit the flame and dropped it onto the bar. 

The vodka-traced patterns ignited, flames whooshing across the bar and making the wards burn white-hot until they finally faded from normal sight – if not from the second.

Brienne laughed with delight.


End file.
